


let's dance like two shadows

by ninemuses



Category: K-pop, Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Future Fic, Minor Irene/Wendy, Non AU, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-05-26 13:29:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15001886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemuses/pseuds/ninemuses
Summary: Seulgi quirks an eyebrow, puzzled. “You don’t want the truth, do you? You just want to hear me say that I’d forgotten about you. That I didn’t tell you about coming back because I don’t care about you. Is that it?”A sharp inhale confirms it. Irene looks away, appearing unsure, timid for the first time since their reunion. She sets the mug back on the table, then picks it back up when she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Seulgi’s never seen her so agitated, but then again, she’d never imagined they’d be in such a situation: meeting as strangers when once they’d shared a house, rooms, clothes, and a best friend.





	1. every beat is a violent noise

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came into my head and would not leave me alone. Enjoy this self-indulgent mess. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction. None of this represents real life (at all).
> 
> Cross-posted from AFF.

She stumbles across Irene at the supermarket.

There’s a half empty basket balanced against Irene’s hip, a line creasing the space between her eyebrows. She seems to be debating between ice cream flavors: vanilla or cookies-and-cream. The condensation from the frozen containers swirls prettily around her.

Seulgi begins to turn her cart around, forgetting the faulty wheel which betrays her presence with a squeak against the supermarket linoleum. She glares at it for good measure, missing the startle that results in a tub of Baskin Robbins dropping noisily to the floor. Seulgi looks up, just in time to catch Irene schooling her surprise into a bland curiosity, left eyebrow arched like a question.

“Hi Joohyun,” Seulgi breathes out, raising a hand in a sheepish wave. She swallows past the rabbit-quick pulse closing up her throat. “I’d go with cookies and cream, but I know you prefer vanilla.” She widens her smile until her cheeks hurt from the effort.

Irene must be out of practice, because she lets her face morph into bewilderment, then plain anger, mouth opening soundlessly. Seulgi braces herself for rage, but Irene demurs, turning to pick up the ice cream tub which has rolled quite a few feet away from them.

Seulgi shifts her weight on her feet, willing herself to not make a run for the nearest exit. She has always been respectful and breaking into a sprint in a supermarket seems a tad dramatic. Irene remains crouching, knuckles whitening around the lid of the container. Seulgi feels sick. She takes a hesitant step forward.

“Do you--do you need some help?”

“How dare you?” Irene hisses. She rises swiftly, the line of her back rigid, two spots of colour high on her cheeks. The cardboard of the container gives under her fingertips. “You think you can just walk back into my life and start handing out advice on ice cream flavours?”

“Well, I tried to escape earlier,” Seulgi points out. “I...I can still leave.”

Irene scoffs. “Be my guest,” she says. Her face is carefully blank.

“Okay,” Seulgi says. She wonders if she should risk picking up the frozen pizza she'd come to this aisle for. The display of pepperoni and mozzarella near Irene's elbow is tempting, and god, hadn't Seulgi recently convinced herself that she had left behind the days of cowering like a child in front of every little thing that scared her?

(Irene has always been on that list, albeit much, much lower than more mundane fears: stage fright, snakes, failure, and house lizards.

Ironically, Irene only surpassed spiders on the list when Seulgi moved away five years ago. Her fear was like the tension in an invisible string binding her to her leader, and the further she got, the more it increased. Restful sleep was rare, nightmares she had never had before keeping her up till she switched from her regular morning mochas to the strongest espressos she could find.)

Decision made, she wipes her palms onto her jeans surreptitiously and wheels her cart slowly past Irene. As if as an afterthought instead of a deliberate move, she extends her arm and nonchalantly retrieves a large box of pizza, which almost slips from her still clammy hands.

She’s already moving past when she registers that Irene no longer resembles a pissed-off mannequin; instead, she is shaking like a leaf in a gale. It's not from the chill radiating from the freezing compartments. It's Seulgi's fault, and she knows that.

The realization makes her falter, and she turns back around to face Irene’s back, her trembling shoulders. Irene, who is still rooted to her spot, still cradling the ice cream close to her chest, eyes bright and blinking rapidly. Her back is slightly hunched like she has been hollowed out.

In the space of a breath, Seulgi's got an arm wrapped around Irene's shoulder, the other hand soothing the goose flesh on Irene's arms.

Seulgi keeps up a steady chant of “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” which Irene allows, as she allows Seulgi’s arms to draw her closer, stoic despite her unshed tears, staring past Seulgi's shoulder, unseeing.

It's enough for now. Seulgi will take what she gets.

 

\--

 

The kettle whistles in the kitchen, rousing Seulgi from a useless staring match with the empty bookshelves of her new apartment. She glances once towards Irene, who is  contemplating the grain of wood patterning the coffee table, gaze both searching and absent, before leaving the living room.

Once she's back, Seulgi pours the tea noisily into a chipped blue mug, freshly unpacked from layers of bubble wrap. She sets it down on the table as loudly as she can without scuffing up the wood. Irene doesn't even blink, and Seulgi sighs.

“Come on, now. Have some tea,” she prods after letting the silence sit for too long, the steaming mug failing to attract the attention of the potential drinker.

Irene makes a show of unwillingly disembarking her train of thought, eyebrows drawing together in exaggerated displeasure. She fusses for a few drawn beats before narrowing her eyes at Seulgi. Seulgi scrunches her face up into a smile in response, one she knows is effective from years of studying herself on camera and from testimonies of fans and friends alike.

Irene rolls her eyes, picking up the cup gingerly. She takes a delicate sip, fingers wrapping greedily around the warmth, her features contorted with studied annoyance.

Seulgi nods, satisfied.

“None for you? What, are you too good for tea, now?” Irene attacks, without preamble.

“You know that makes no sense.”

Irene says nothing, takes another sip as she looks around the living room for the first time since she's walked in. “Seungwan knows.” It's not a question.

“Yeah, she does.” 

“And you didn't think to inform me,” Irene says evenly. “I would love to hear the excuses you were busy concocting instead of paying attention to road on the way here.”

Seulgi notes the tightening of Irene's fingers around the mug with rising terror. That mug is heavy and would leave a pretty bruise.

“I...wanted to surprise you?” Seulgi tries, words laced with right amount of contrition. “It was going to involve a lot of groveling, and a generous amount of lunches and dinners. A year’s worth. Also, I have gifts? I’ve collected a decent wardrobe during my…travels and I haven’t even made a dent in it.”

Irene laughs without mirth. “Oh, you meant to bribe me with the newest Louboutins?” The tea almost sloshes over the edge of the mug with the jerks accompanying her forced laughter. “So clever. I guess traveling really added to what you were lacking in intelligence,” she adds in a biting tone, face wiped of humour.

It stings because it’s meant to, but not much. Seulgi knows Irene doesn’t mean it,  that the anger and the insults are warranted. Perhaps the offer of clothes was made too soon, their shared interest in fashion notwithstanding. There were bridges to mend before Seulgi could tease, before they could joke around like they used to.

“Okay, I was scared. Afraid. Paralyzed with fear and guilt.” Seulgi rests her elbows on her knees before framing her face with her hands, eyes trained on Irene. “I didn’t know how to face you again. I still don’t think I know.” If there’s a waver in her voice, Irene doesn’t comment on it.

“You don’t look scared,” Irene says mockingly, voice pitched high in disbelief. “You’re making me tea, you’re offering me your designer hand-me-downs, you don’t seem...paralyzed with fear.”

Seulgi quirks an eyebrow, puzzled. “You don’t want the truth, do you? You just want to hear me say that I’d forgotten about you. That I didn’t tell you about coming back because I don’t care about you. Is that it?”

A sharp inhale confirms it. Irene looks away, appearing unsure, timid for the first time since their reunion. She sets the mug back on the table, then picks it back up when she doesn’t know what to do with her hands. Seulgi’s never seen her so agitated, but then again, she’d never imagined they’d be in such a situation: meeting as strangers when once they’d shared a house, rooms, clothes, and a best friend.

“Didn’t Seungwan warn you? She knows that my apartment is just a block away from this one,” Irene says, ignoring Seulgi’s question. “It’s hardly prudent to share a supermarket with someone you don’t wanna run into.”

“She hasn’t been here yet. I signed the lease in a hurry.”

At a pointed look, Seulgi elaborates, “I wanted to get settled before...uh, well. Did the management have a chance to talk to you yet?”

Irene’s eyebrows raise and her eyes widen in horror. “No. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s unfair to blindside her like this, but Seulgi has no choice, does she? “A spring comeback. We start recording in two months. I think they have a couple demos already.”

“What about your tour in Australia?”

Seulgi’s surprised that Irene’s information is so detailed but then, Wendy’s never been one to keep much from their leader. Except the news of Seulgi’s return.

When Seulgi doesn’t respond, Irene asks, “Are you going on a hiatus from your solo activities? What about your fans?”

“They’ve waited for me before. I won’t lose them easily. Besides, SM is planning a world tour this time, for all of us. Together.” It’s hard to keep some of the excitement out of her voice, but it’s tainted by the fact that Irene had been kept in the dark and Seulgi hadn’t. “It’s time for Red Velvet, now.”

“And they didn’t think to ask me? Or tell me?” Irene is understandably livid. “Why do you get to know first? Does Seungwan know? The others?”

Seulgi shakes her head. “They had to ask me before they could shelve the plans for the Australia tour. I think they were gonna break it to you guys at the meeting scheduled for us next week. Running into you wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Evidently,” Irene says, then busies herself pretending to drink her tea. Her mind seems to be far away, and Seulgi feels grateful to have distracted Irene from her ire. They still had a lot to discuss, and Seulgi would rather they postpone it indefinitely. She's never been good at confrontations, especially with Irene, and the constant interrogation had raised up quite a sweat, even in the chill of a late winter afternoon.

“I’m gonna go take a quick shower. Are you—,” Seulgi pauses, considering her words, “Do you wanna share the pizza I got for dinner? Or this whole thing would have been a waste.” She smiles to let Irene know that she's joking.

Irene glares at her for fifteen seconds (Seulgi counts them, heart hammering) before she gets to her feet.

It's only instinct that makes Seulgi back away to a safe distance.

“Okay,” Irene agrees loftily. “I'll eat your damn pizza.”

“Okay?” Seulgi is weak-kneed with relief.

“Yeah, only if we're having ice cream after this too,” Irene says, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “I’m not looking forward to going back on a diet.”

It's only when Seulgi's in the shower that she realizes, belatedly, that Irene had been amused at her panic.

Perhaps all is not lost yet.

 

\--

 

In the middle of being smothered, courtesy of a Joy-Yeri-Wendy group hug slash dogpile, Seulgi wonders why she’d been so scared of death-by-Irene when she should have been worrying about her other bandmates instead.

“Guys, you’re suffocating me.”

“You deserve it for being gone for so long!” Joy fires back, knuckling her hair in retaliation. Apparently five years has been enough for Joy to throw formalities and age-gap to the wind, and Seulgi, freshly-returned from a long stay abroad, doesn’t do much but laugh in mock outrage.

“Yes, unnie, you can’t chokeslam people through Snapchat,” Yeri says from somewhere behind Seulgi’s back, arms around her neck as she tries to force a piggyback ride out of her.

Seulgi protests: “Aren’t you a bit too old for climbing onto people’s backs?”

Yeri ignores her, continuing her assault on Seulgi’s back. “Maybe you’re too old. Are your bones already aching, grandma? Should I get your walker?”

Wendy’s fetched her phone and appears to be filming Seulgi’s ordeal, her giggles spilling around the fist in front of her mouth. “You really do deserve this, Seulgi-yah. For not even visiting us once!”  She’s joking but Seulgi’s not dense enough to ignore the trace of hurt beneath her words. There’s a lot to unpack there, too. Seulgi definitely has her work cut out for her.

Which would have to wait, because the door to the conference room opens, and Irene walks in.

It’s a bit comical, the way the maknaes (if they can be called that, in their mid-twenties now) freeze. Joy had been squishing Seulgi’s cheeks with dramatic fondness, and Yeri had given up climbing in favour of tickling Seulgi. Their hands stop, hovering over Seulgi’s frame awkwardly before they drop to their sides.

The tension in the room is palpable.

“Glad to see you all in such great spirits,” Irene deadpans, and takes a seat.

“Good morning to you too, grumpy-face,” Wendy replies, cracking a hesitant smile as she puts away her phone, trying to break through the suddenly oppressive atmosphere.

Irene looks at Wendy warningly, obviously still displeased about being kept in the dark about Seulgi.

It's Seulgi’s fault. Everything is, even though she never meant it to be this way.

The rest of them shuffle around the room looking busy, before their managers, various producers, and assorted people file into the conference room. Seulgi sits across from Irene, not of her own volition, and spends the entirety of the meeting trying to pretend like she can’t feel the heavy gaze pinning her down like a fly to a board.

She barely makes it through.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Their new song is fast-paced, all synths, guitars, and bass, with a throbbing beat underpinning a catchy tune. The dance is complex and tiring; it has to be, for a comeback that's supposed to gloss over five years of inactivity for Red Velvet.

Not that any of the members have been idle.

While Seulgi was consolidating a career outside of Korea, ironically, Wendy built a diverse discography of smooth ballads, rousing retro tracks and more mellow r&b numbers, solidifying her position as one of Korea's most promising young vocalists. In the process, Yeri finally got to stretch her creative muscles: she co-wrote and produced some of the tracks on Wendy's albums, even adding her vocals to some b-sides. Those were the ones Seulgi put in her on-the-move playlists, letting their voices lull her into naps between events.

Yeri also scored her own late night radio show, a fitting outlet for an insomniac with too many thoughts and her fingertip on the pulse of the youth. Whenever Seulgi could steal a few moments of respite, she’d watch Yeri interview industry seniors and juniors, with wit and warmth in equal measure. There was a charm and ease to her banter that made Seulgi swell with pride and nostalgia every time she tuned in. Sometimes she'd leave comments on the official channel's account, much to the delight of their fans, and Yeri would respond with a zinger, always aiming to tease.

Joy’s acting career took off in an unprecedented way. Once she got cast as the lead of a female-driven crime drama, the accolades and opportunities kept coming. Although Seulgi couldn't afford the luxury of watching dramas, with her busy schedule, she watched supercuts of Joy's best scenes, always sending enthusiastic gibberish and ramblings through texts that Joy would respond to with cheeky selfies.

Irene, the one most visibly unmoored by Seulgi’s decision to pursue an international career (and the group’s subsequent ‘break’), seemed reluctant to shed the mantle of Red Velvet’s leader. Sure, there was a sharp uptick in her endorsements, MC spots, and even the occasional guest spot in a drama or a summer flick. But the articles about her seeming lack of drive had been numerous, ruthless in their dissection of her supposed woodenness without her bandmates.

Seulgi’s probably kept a closer eye on the eldest than she has on the others, searching up Irene’s name every chance she got, reading the tasteless drivel that passed for journalism, despite the ache in her eyes left by late nights and longer hours.

It’s only because Irene had taken the hiatus the hardest. She’s always put the group before her personal ambitions.

Not that Seulgi has to justify herself.  

If she _had_ to justify herself, she’d reason that it’s because she’s known Irene the longest. Seulgi knew her before Irene grew into the self-assured woman the world banished to a pedestal. Seulgi can still picture the shy newbie trying to hide a strong Daegu accent as clearly as she can conjure up images of her childhood bedroom.

More than anything, Seulgi feels responsible, somehow. For all the articles, for the fact that the only interaction they’d had over the years were the few times they addressed each other directly in the Red Velvet group chat.

“Stop staring, Seulgi-ah. She’s going to snap at you again,” Wendy whispers, jolting Seulgi out of her daze. “She just needs an excuse at this point, and you better not give her one. I’m tired and I’m going to use the remaining energy in my arms to strangle you if Joohyun makes us start practice before our break ends, just because she’s angry at you.”

Okay, so maybe Seulgi has been staring. Irene refused to join the rest of them for a well-deserved break and, really, Seulgi can’t be blamed for allowing her eyes to wander.

She’d missed this: cataloguing the precision of Irene’s moves, the way her hips cut through the air with a grace Seulgi hasn’t been able to mimic even after years of trying. Irene’s dancing with vigour, like she’s warming up, expression sharp despite her laboured breathing.

Something had slowly unfurled in Seulgi's chest as she watched.

(She calls it admiration, but it feels too intimate for that name.)

She gets Wendy’s hint though, and looks away.

Her ears burn, and she feels like chucking her water bottle at Wendy, so she does.

Wendy grins, smug and annoying, stern attitude disappearing as she catches the bottle easily. “Thanks for the drink, friend.”

“Hey, pass us a bottle too. I think I’m dying,” Joy wheezes from across the room.

Yeri snickers, distracted from watching (what Seulgi assumes to be) conspiracy videos on her phone. “I knew I’d regret being put into a group with senior citizens.”

Joy throws a balled up sock at Yeri’s face, voice raised to a screech, “You’re the one who asked for a break first!”

“I wasn't the one huffing and puffing like a grandma on run from the old age home!”

“Look at what you’ve started,” Wendy accuses Seulgi, getting her airpods out while her eyes stay on the playlist she's curating. “Fix it,” she whispers while she puts her earphones in, her eyes darting once towards Irene, whose steps have grown more energetic.

Or irritated.

Joy and Yeri have committed themselves to the cause of raising a ruckus, decidedly behaving nothing like people in their twenties. They’re throwing various things (a towel, someone’s journal, a handheld fan) at each other, whooping whenever an object finds its intended target.

“Yah, stop it, you guys,” Seulgi yells. “It’s a break, use it. I don't wanna hear complaints when we start again.”

Unsurprisingly, they ignore her.

Yeri goes as far as defending herself by diverting a projectile to the general area where Seulgi’s seated.

Seulgi ducks before a half-eaten apple hits her squarely in the face.

Normally, Seulgi’s great at tamping down any signs of emergent anger, but she's been on edge. Because of the warning in Wendy's voice. Because of the furtive glances Irene keeps throwing her way, the not-so-subtle ones that Seulgi's pretending to not notice.

Just being around Irene these days is enough for an incoherent fear to take shape in her, a wholly unfamiliar feeling that leaves Seulgi nettled.

So:

Seulgi snaps, the nervous energy bubbling up in her till she's tossing the apple back at the offensive party without a second thought.

Her aim hasn't improved much over time.

The makeshift missile sails past Irene's left ear, missing it by half-a-foot and bouncing harmlessly off the wall of mirrors opposite them.

Irene jumps the other half foot in the opposite direction, and promptly loses her balance when her feet tangle together. She goes down like a sack of potatoes.

Or what Seulgi imagines a sack of potatoes would look like if it had the disposition of a skittish deer and got spooked in the middle of angrily practicing girl group choreography.

She doesn't have the energy to come up with better metaphors, not with her heart lodged firmly in her windpipe, as she rushes to her feet.

The fall isn’t as bad as Seulgi’s near heart-attack makes it seem. Irene’s already sitting up and rubbing her knees, wincing.

“I’m so sorry! I was just trying to get them to shut up.”

Seulgi curses inwardly, approaching Irene as she would a wounded lioness, balanced on the balls of her feet, ready to turn tail and run at the first sign of danger.

She tries again: “Joohyun, are you hurt? You know how terrible my aim is…I’m very sorry.”

She appends a nervous laugh, hoping against reason that Irene will just accept her apology.

There’s a quiet in the room.

“Well, it worked,” Wendy pipes up from her corner, a picture of concern and amusement.

She's right.

Yeri and Joy have stopped their battle to watch the unfolding disaster with rapt attention, with matching smirks to boot.

“Let's hope we don't have to do ISAC this comeback,” Yeri says.

“We'll keep Seulgi away from the pointy things. She might skewer a fan accidentally,” Joy adds.

Seulgi resists the urge to find another object to throw at them, and settles with running the heel of her palm over her face in exasperation.

Irene's quietly nursing a reddening spot on her right thigh. They're no strangers to bruises, given their profession, but Seulgi’s chest still seizes at the sight .

“Well, aren't you going to help me up?”

“Oh! Yes..” Seulgi ignores the background laughter to extend a hand to Irene, who doesn't comment on how sweaty her palms are and hoists herself to her feet. “I'm sorry you got hurt because of me. I’ll go get an ice pack...”

Irene’s used her grip on Seulgi's hand to tug herself into Seulgi's space, impassive and  intimidating despite having to look up to make up for their slight height difference.

Seulgi’s brain goes blank, and she feels herself visibly shrink under Irene’s gaze. The unsettling fear is back, clouding her head.

Of course, she starts talking to cut through the fog:

“I promise, I’ll do your chores for a week! And--and I know your back’s been acting up. I used to have physio after some of my concerts in the US, I’ve picked up some things. I’ll--I’ll give you a massage after our practices. Only if you want one, of course. I wouldn’t dare presume--haha. Of course. _Pleasedontkillme._ ”

It’s only when she’s run out of things to say that she notices that Irene’s not shaking with anger, but with suppressed laughter.

The background giggling has raised to a crescendo, even Wendy joining in as Yeri and Joy howl with laughter, instead of respectfully shouldering the blame along with her.

It’s almost like Seulgi’s traveled back through time. Her bandmates are laughing at her, at her rambling, and automatically, Seulgi’s smiling and laughing back, the pressure in her chest dissolving like wet cotton candy.

“Okay, okay. You got me, very funny.”

“No, please carry on. I was quite enjoying your growing list of bribes,” Irene replies, mouth crooked and teasing.

Seulgi tries not to focus on the shape of it. She settles her gaze on the non-threatening view of a chair kicked back against one corner of the practice room.

“Well, the offers still stand. Your laundry for a week, post-practice massages, all done, no problem. That bruise looks like it’s gonna hurt.”

“We’ve both been through worse,” Irene says, tone light. It's clear that she's not talking about the bruise at all.

“Oh,” Seulgi says. She brings her eyes back to meet Irene's, the atmosphere suddenly serious. “Yes. You're right. And we survived, didn't we?”

“We survived,” Irene agrees, searching Seulgi's face for something. Seulgi almost squirms under the scrutiny. “I’d still like that ice pack though. And a Pocari Sweat too, on your way back.”

“Aye, captain.”

Seulgi leaves the room, feeling disoriented like she's the one who had tumbled to the floor instead of Irene.

 

\--

 

It's nearly 3 am by the time they finish practice, grab a late dinner, and retire to their bedrooms in the apartment they've all been forced to share for the duration of their first post-hiatus comeback and all the preparations leading up to it.

The management had said something about the importance of giving off the impression of a tight friendship to their fans and the general public. They didn't elaborate on why it had to come in the form of forced cohabitation, after all the hoops the girls had been made to jump through to earn the freedom to their private spaces. Their arguments didn't matter in the end. The Powers That Be had refused to entertain any objections.

(Seulgi had to cancel her newly-signed lease, and move all her stuff all over again.)

Seulgi idly texts a few of her American friends, who have just begun their day, while she waits for Wendy to finish her shower. They're rooming together again, and the familiarity is comforting.

“I’m done washing up, but you should wait a bit for the water to heat up properly,” Wendy says in lieu of a greeting, exiting the en-suite. The towel around her neck is wet in patches from the water steadily dripping from her hair.

Seulgi hums, and returns to scrolling through her chats, shooting off quick replies to the ones that can't be ignored or left for another time.

Wendy takes a seat on the bed across from Seulgi, rubbing her hair half-heartedly with the towel.

“Don't you miss them?”

“Them? You mean the people I knew there?”

“Yeah, friends, coworkers. That funny boy with the long nose. What was his name? Kyle? And your new best friend, Leila.”

Seulgi laughs. “I wouldn't call them… friends. More like, friendly connections. Anyway, they keep me updated. Trust me, it was a million times worse when I moved there. I can deal with not seeing Leila...or Kyle.” She waves her hand dismissively.

Wendy scoffs, sounding unconvinced. “If you missed us that much, you would have showed your face at least once. Grabbed a quick coffee with me or sushi with Yerim when you were here visiting your parents.”

Seulgi lets her phone drop to her pillow and sits up. She settles her back against the wall next to her bed. She weighs the mix of carefully hidden distress and betrayal on Wendy's face before she formulates a reply.

“I didn't wanna meet you guys because it'd be harder. To go back. To go and do the whole thing alone, to ignore the fact that I had the option of doing the easy thing by staying here, just carrying on with you guys.”

“That sounds like an excuse, Seulgi.”

Seulgi shrugs. “It is one. I am a coward, sometimes.”

Wendy tuts angrily. “Stop doing that.”

Seulgi plays with the sheets next to her hand, fingers rumpling the embroidered sunflowers, bright and yellow, smoothing them over and rumpling them again in a restless cycle.

“At least you had the blow by blow,” Seulgi says after a brief silence. “I’m sorry for not being here, physically. But I kept you updated, as much as I could.”

“Yeah, me and Sooyoung and Yerim.”

Seulgi’s already defending herself before she can process the hidden accusation. “Joohyun never texted me either. She didn't call, not even once.”

“Like you weren't constantly complaining on the group chat about being tired and whining about jet lag and about not even having time to eat. Not even a hot dog, Wannie, how will I survive!”

Seulgi watches her hand fist in the sheets with detached curiosity, wondering if she followed the long line of her arm to its source, if it might end at a foreign shoulder.

“That didn't stop the three of you from bugging me on Snapchat, and Instagram, and FaceTime.” Seulgi doesn't bother to keep the bitterness out of her voice, eyes still trained on the white of her knuckles standing out against the tan of the surrounding skin.

“You know how Joohyun is. She was upset when you left, and it only got worse because you left it that way.” A pause, then a noise as Wendy discards her towel on the carpeted floor. “She expected better from you.”

The mattress dips as Wendy's knees come into view next to Seulgi's clenched hand, her pale fingers coming to rest lightly on Seulgi’s wrist. Her touch is like crushed ice wrapped in a cotton t-shirt on a minor burn.

“Did you two talk about it yet?” Wendy asks, like one might ask about the deteriorating health of a dying relative.

“I don't wanna talk about it,” Seulgi says petulantly, turning her face into the open warmth of Wendy's shoulder. Her cheeks are wet and her tears mingle freely with the cool water from Wendy's still-wet hair. The smell of jasmine shampoo loosens the knot in Seulgi's chest slightly.

Wendy runs a hand through the tangle of Seulgi’s hair till her gentle sobs subside.

When Seulgi has more or less recovered, she sits back, sniffling and feeling embarrassed. She clears her throat.

“Sorry about your shirt.”

“Glad you got it out of your system,” Wendy says kindly, smiling at her. “Besides, it’s a bit stuffy from the heating. Think I’ll sleep better without the shirt.”

Later, when Seulgi's freshly showered and cocooned in darkness and blankets, she turns away from Wendy's bed to face the wall and calls out: “Seungwan-ah.”

Wendy grunts in response.

“Are you awake?”

“I am now. Do you need another heart to heart?” Wendy's voice is thick with sleep and her vowels are a bit jumbled.

Seulgi almost feels bad for disturbing her but she knows she won't be able to summon up the same amount of courage that she has running through her veins right now, the intimacy from earlier still warming up her insides, lingering in the shadows of their shared bedroom.

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Hm, ask away.”

“Why didn't you and Joohyun work out?”

Seulgi wonders if Wendy can hear how loudly her heart is beating across the three feet of carpet separating their beds.

“Don't you think it's more polite to be facing me when you're asking about my love life? I don't wanna talk to the back of your head.”

Seulgi grumbles and turns around. “You didn't answer.” She can barely make out Wendy's face, but she can see the glimmer of her teeth as she makes a show of sticking her tongue out.

“There isn't a simple answer, Seulgi-ah.”

“Bullshit.” A pause, as Seulgi ponders the curiosity rushing up in her, like river-water in a reservoir about to overflow during the peak of monsoon. “It made sense, you know. When you told me about it. I kinda saw it coming.”

“You did? You never mentioned that before.”

“Please, of course I did. I know everyone loves calling me slow and dense but I'd have to be blind to miss the blatant flirting you guys tried to pass off as friendship. Or fanservice. Whatever.”

Wendy starts laughing, to Seulgi's complete bemusement.

“What? What's so funny?”

Wendy quietens down in response, a giggle or two escaping her before she says, “Sorry, continue.”

“Like I was saying, you guys gotta give me a little more credit. I notice things!”

“If you say so.”

Seulgi doesn't take the bait. “I was more surprised when you told me that you guys broke it off. The way you talked about Joohyun…hell, I've seen the way she doted on you, from the beginning. You’re best friends. You've always been best friends.”

“Seulgi, you're my best friend too. Are we in love? Is this your your way of asking me out?”

“No! That's different,” Seulgi protests immediately, warmth rushing to her cheeks at the implication. She feels like Wendy's being difficult on purpose. Like she's laughing at a joke that Seulgi's not aware of.

Wendy hums noncommittally. “Not all best friends are built to be lovers. Joohyun and I decided we worked better as friends than girlfriends.” She laughs wryly, then adds, “Actually, it was simple, in hindsight. Our hearts weren't really in it. Besides, there was always a third party in our relationship…this constant presence of something else.”

It’s obvious that Wendy’s skirting around something she wants to say and Seulgi sighs in frustration.

“Something else? What do you mean?”

“I'll leave that for you to figure out. Like you said, you're smart and you notice things. Or maybe you can ask Joohyun about it when you both stop acting like kids and actually talk to each other.”

Seulgi picks up a spare pillow and throws it at Wendy in response.

Wendy just laughs again. “Good night to you too, Seulgi. Great talk. Please refrain from asking any further questions until I’ve had at least five hours of sleep.”


	3. Chapter 3

There are two chairs vying for attention when they enter the practice room, and an eager, fresh-faced choreographer they’ve never met before.

Seulgi’s on vocal rest, throat hoarse and damaged from excessive practice and recording sessions.

(She also thinks it could be due to one too many bingsus. She’s not in any hurry to confess to that though. They just couldn't get the dessert right anywhere else and she had really missed it.)

“So, it’s gonna be like a throwback,” the choreographer is explaining in accented English, hands flying around in enthusiasm. Seulgi missed the entire first part of his monologue, daydreaming about patbingsu. “A little nostalgia, a little flirtation. A bit saucy, as much as we can get away with. The fans eat that stuff right up, y’know what I’m sayin’?”

“What I’m hearing right now is that we’re not needed here, ” Yeri says.

“Yeah, can the rest of us leave?” Joy asks.

Seulgi’s about to ask why they’re asking to be excused, when a 5-hour dance practice had clearly been penciled in on their fridge calendar in Irene's neat handwriting, and what does Joy mean by _the rest of us_ , before she remembers that she’s supposed to be keeping quiet. She silently hopes that the situation will make itself clear.

The choreographer appears to be miffed at his grand plans being met with such cold indifference. He glances at their manager once to confirm, and then nods sharply at Wendy, Joy, and Yeri. “Yes, you three can take the rest of the day off.”

“No wandering. Strictly rest,” their manager adds.

He doesn’t address Seulgi. Or Irene.

Irene, who hasn’t spoken since she’s entered the room. Irene, who is definitely not on vocal rest.

Yeri’s already headed out, throwing a peace sign over her shoulder. “Best of luck, guys. I know you’ll kill it. Please don’t wake me up when you’re back,” she says, head swiveling in their direction once, before she disappears, leaving a swinging door in her wake.

(Oh.)

“Don’t practice too hard,” Joy says with a sweet smile, trying to hide her pleasure at getting a free evening under her sympathy for her less fortunate bandmates. “Oh, and dinner’s on me tonight, so just text me your orders before you leave, ok?” She gives Irene and Seulgi a quick hug each and practically skips out of the practice room.

(Oh no.)

Wendy’s the only one who looks as full of trepidation as Seulgi feels right now.

(A duet performance. Just Seulgi. And Irene. And the five years worth of awkwardness they’ve carefully cultivated between them.)

“You’re gonna have an easy time with these two, they’re our best,” Wendy says to the choreographer, who is beginning to get antsy at their drawn out farewells. She laughs, shrill and forced. “I promised to never touch a chair onstage after _Be Natural_. Unless I’m just sitting on it.”

Seulgi understands what Wendy’s trying to do, and smiles at her, grateful.

She also tries very hard not to let her panic show on her face.

(It has become a private panic now.

Seulgi keeps it leashed until she’s in the sanctuary of her duvet. She waits, unsleeping, for the quiet stillness that comes just before morning tiptoes around the corner of their street.

When the deep sounds of Wendy’s sleep-breaths carry across the room, she unchains her panic.

She feels it sniff along the length of her body, like an old pet greeting her after a long absence. She lets it claw at her throat without leaving behind marks.

She never looks it in the eye. She doesn't want to give it a name.)

“I’ll see you guys back at the dorm,” Wendy says, squeezing Irene’s shoulder. Irene leans into the touch. “Don’t overwork yourselves, okay? Seulgi, don't forget, not a single word out of you.”

Seulgi makes a zipping motion in front of her lips. Wendy gives her a thumbs up, shoulders her ridiculously large bag, and walks out. Now, it's just Seulgi, Irene, their manager, and the choreographer who’s bouncing up and down with barely-repressed energy.

Irene clears her throat to draw attention. The choreographer looks at her.

“She’s on vocal rest,” she says, pointing at Seulgi.

The guy frowns, then nods. “Okay, we can work with that.”

Then, his lips stretch smugly, like he’s going to say something really smart. “Besides, you ladies only need to talk with your body for the routine I have planned for you. It’s going to be gorgeous. Movement, motion, art!” He punctuates each word with big flourishes of his hand.

Irene rolls her eyes, and shares a look with Seulgi, like _‘Can you believe this guy?’_

Seulgi musters a shaky grin in response. The panic flourishes under the spotlight of Irene's attention.

Out of habit, Seulgi begins to crack each one of her knuckles like she's attacking a group of particularly stubborn peanut shells. Satisfied, she proceeds to stretch her back and rotate her shoulders till a series of loud pops ring in the room like gunshots. It’s as much to loosen the tension in her muscles as it is to ease the coil tightening inside her belly.

Out of habit, Irene smacks her hard in the stomach in admonition.

Seulgi gasps, then laughs soundlessly in surprise. An easy kind of joy spreads inside her like warm butter. Just like that, the unease from earlier is displaced, as if boxed out of her by the insubstantial force of Irene's punch.

“Now, if you two are done flirting, can we begin?”

Their manager lets out a loud guffaw at the choreographer’s words, which he turns into a poor imitation of a cough at the sight of twin glares pointed at him. “I'll go get some water,” he says, and escapes from the room.

Seulgi fails to stop a violent blush from rising to her face. She tries not to hide behind her hair.

“Is everyone always this unprofessional here?” Mr. Choreographer asks.

(Seulgi's sure he has introduced himself but she hadn't been paying attention and now there’s no way to ask.)

“Oh, yes, sadly. That's why we have you to lead us in the right direction,” Irene says, smile tight and saccharine.

People tend to get distracted by the prettiness of Irene's face, often missing the tone of her words or the meaning behind her eyes. Mr. Choreographer is cut from the same cloth. He forgoes his discontent in favour of an asinine smile, preening at what he takes to be a compliment.

It's Seulgi's turn to roll her eyes. She mimes gagging when he turns away to fiddle with the speaker system. Irene gifts her a genuine, indulgent smile for her efforts.

An electric guitar starts crooning in the background.

“I know you guys haven’t started recording for this track yet, but your team has assured me that it’s making the final cut for the album. It's the best choice for the teaser.”

Seulgi knows the demo well. It’s one of her favourites among the ones they have listened to. It’s in English, full of breathy innuendo. The beat is fast and unsteady, the pace more urgent in places, like she imagines a pulse would be in the thick of the actions the song lovingly describes.

She knows the Korean version will be tamer but that doesn’t particularly help her, not right now. Her body warms at the female voice huskily beckoning a lover to bed. An overwhelming shyness takes hold of her. She steals a glance at her to-be dance partner.

Irene’s nonchalance is belied by the scarlet tint of the tip of her left ear peeking through the mass of her hair, which is down in messy waves today.

“Are we going to be using those chairs?” Irene asks, voice distant. It’s a fair question, given their history of the prop.

“No,” Mr. Choreographer laughs, promptly taking a seat on one of them. “They’re for me and your manager. Where has he disappeared to?”

“He does that sometimes.”

“Abandon the people he’s supposed to watch over?”

“Yeah. It’s not like we’re rookies anymore. We only really need him when we’re out on the streets. Or deciding schedules.”

“Right, okay.” That satisfies him. Irene could probably tell him it’s suddenly summer outside and he’d take her word as gospel.

“So, are you going to show us the steps?”

The track is still playing. It has lost some of its provocativeness in the process of becoming background noise.

“Right. About that,” Mr. Choreographer begins, his fingers fluttering on the worn knees of his jeans. “I wanted to have a quick look at your chemistry, before I showed you the dance.”

“What does that mean?” Irene splutters, her carefully constructed calm beginning to splinter. “You said you had a routine planned already. We’ve been dancing together for years now. Of course we have chemistry!”

The guy steeples his fingers and rests his chin on top of the join of his hands, aiming for pensive but missing the mark, resembling a cross-eyed frog instead. “Ah, but it's crucial for me to assess it first hand. We all want the best results, don't we?” he asks, condescendingly.

“You’ve watched _Be Natural_.”

“Yes, yes, I have,” he dismisses her, (and Irene bristles in such a contained manner that only Seulgi is able to tell), “but that was so inauthentic. Mediocre choreography. Edited within an inch of its life, bleh!”

Seulgi shifts closer to Irene and hesitantly draws her hand into the comforting grip of her own. Irene starts, then turns to meet her eyes. They share a look. Irene turns back to Mr. Choreographer, resolute.

“What do you want us to do?”

He looks at their clasped hands for a drawn beat. “Improvise. Freestyle. Let the song dictate your moves. It shouldn’t be too hard, given your abilities. It’s only a 45 second demo, anyway. I want to get a feel of your dance auras. Just…” his smile shifts, almost grotesque in the harsh lighting of the room, “be natural!”

Seulgi's hand squeezes Irene's before she can respond with the cutting remark that Seulgi knows she is restraining behind her tight-lipped smile.

“Freestyle it is,” she says instead.

At Seulgi’s gentle ushering, they move to the center of the room, hand-in-hand.

Seulgi marvels at the warmth of Irene's skin against her palm. A buzz of anticipation spreads from the point of contact till she's thrumming, all the way down to her socked toes. She disengages from Irene's tight grip, pulls a hair band from her wrist and holds it out to Irene. Irene takes it from her with the barest brush of their fingertips, looking at Seulgi with her face open and shining with excitement.

When Irene turns away slightly to put her hair up in a ponytail, Seulgi's eyes are drawn to the line of her exposed neck, and then, to the shells of her still-pink ears. A shadow of a smile clings to the corner of Irene’s mouth, like it’s aware of Seulgi’s scrutiny but hiding the knowledge from the rest of her body.

Seulgi wonders, then turns her attention to the task at hand.

The strange man’s presence is all but forgotten.

After all, it has been a while since they've danced together. Just the two of them.

The song loops back to the beginning. The woman’s voice starts to sigh, wanting and seductive. A treacherous stage is set for the first test of their tentative companionship. A team-bonding event, of sorts. A screen test.

It’s almost absurdly comical.

Irene starts them off, languidly falling into position when the bass kicks in. She throws a charged stare over her shoulder, a challenge and an invitation.

Seulgi lets the emotion coursing through her surface, clear as day, on her face.

A supplicant before a shrine.

They fall into step like precisely engineered cogs. It’s impossible to forget years and years of long nights. The endless hours they spent perfecting the bend of a knee, the correct arch of a wrist. When they had no one but each other to stoke the hunger for success. When they were both rivals and confidants.

Some things sink into your bones and stay. Like riding a bicycle. Like learning not to drown. Their bodies line up and move apart at the cadence of their heartbeats. Where Irene is all sinuous grace, Seulgi tempers the effect with the clean edges of her motion. Irene matches the snap of her hips to the sharp angles of Seulgi’s arms, to the pointed flight of her foot. While they face their audience of one, their gazes keep flitting towards the other, like celestial objects dictated by gravity. They step around each other as naturally as breathing.

When the song gains momentum, they circle like tigers spoiling for a fight. When the beat collapses into fragments, and the singing rises, feverish, they slow down in tandem. Seulgi’s hands are around Irene’s waist, a safe inch away from the exposed skin where the hem of her shirt has ridden up. Their feet tap out slower echoes onto the wood of the dance room floor. Their faces are almost close enough for their gasps of exertion to mingle.

Seulgi ricochets off the negative space, a wave retreating from the shore after it has spent itself on the rocks.

The song ends, leaving behind a curious sense of loss.

And starts playing again.

Stray, damp hairs stick to Irene’s forehead and the slope of her shoulder. There’s sweat already cooling in the notch between her collarbones, at her temples, and in the divot above her parted mouth She’s wonderfully flushed from the exercise, breathing in short, deep inhales. She’s making a concentrated effort to not meet Seulgi’s eyes.

Even in the sterile light of the practice room, Irene is effulgent.

Seulgi fans herself by flapping her hands ridiculously. Her own cheeks are aflame, and she’s hot all over, from the activity and also not. She tries to focus instead on the disagreeable sensation of her loose t-shirt sticking to her back, slick from sweat and cold from the air conditioning.

Mr. Choreographer is squinting at them from his vantage point, perched almost at the edge of his seat. He also seems to have been filming them with his iPhone, which Seulgi doesn’t mind because she’s particular about reviewing her performances and she knows Irene is too, but she also wishes he’d asked first. It’s hard to discern his thoughts from the cloudy expression on his face.

Her heart sits heavily inside her chest, a feeling she’s come to associate with the unpleasant process of awaiting judgement.

“Bravo! That was brilliant. Much better than I expected. You two work well together. You know, after a hiatus, one can have reservations. Of course, we’ll need polish and actual steps, which is why I'm here. There’s a long way ahead of us. Some refinement, more time spent on your footwork, and we can actually pull this off in the next 3 days.”

“Thank you,” Irene replies, stiff and formal.

Mr. Choreographer gets to his feet, stretching dramatically. Then, he says, “Okay, time for me to work my magic.”

As he demonstrates, he talks to them like they're still trainees huddling after hours in the basements, a moment away from keeling over. Jargon litters his speech, and he relishes elaborating on the technical terms he throws around.

He is, however, good at choreography despite his irritating personality. So they tolerate being talked down to, and run through the steps he shows them till they have the routine memorized.

Seulgi's jaw develops an ache from the number of times she grits her teeth during the remainder of the scheduled practice.

It’s almost midnight by the time they’re done.

They're sitting in the back of a car, their manager speeding through emptying streets towards their shared apartment, when Irene puts a hand on Seulgi's shoulder.

Seulgi blinks out the sleep from her eyes and turns towards Irene, groggy from the nap she almost stumbled into.

“Sorry for waking you,” Irene says, voice pitched low and beyond the hearing of the third person in the car.

After a loaded pause, where it seems like Irene's choosing and discarding multiple conversation-starters in her head, she finally speaks. 

“You were really good today.”

Seulgi smiles widely in response. The _You too_ is unspoken but implied.

Irene’s eyes move from Seulgi's face back to the blurry scenery of buildings and cars and streetlights. “I used to watch your concert footage, you know. Seungwan bought me the Blu-Ray of your North America tour for Christmas. We used to look up your interviews on YouTube. She'd translate some of the faster bits for me. We would imitate your English accent, back when you weren’t so good at it,” she continues haltingly, in a small voice.

"You’re still improving, every single day, every performance. I don't know how you do it.” A shaky breath, like Irene's pulling words out of herself like a dentist extracting teeth. “I love watching you on stage.”

There seems to be too little air in this too big car. The windows are rolled up but Seulgi feels like wind is rushing past her ears at full force. An odd sense of vertigo threatens to overwhelm her. Although Irene is not looking at her, Seulgi nods mutely at her words.

“I don't want you to have the wrong idea. I don't resent your success, Seulgi-ah.”

 _Of course_ , Seulgi wants to say. _I would never think that._

“I missed you. I was...I _am_ angry because of it,” Irene says in the quietest voice. It's almost just an exhale against the window she's facing. “I missed dancing with you. Having you next to me.”

The words don't have an exit wound. They stay inside Seulgi like bullets she'll have to excavate later.

Irene finally looks at her, face sharp with resolve.

She says: “Maybe someday, you will be able to talk to me about this.”

She says: “And then, maybe I will be able to forgive you.”

Seulgi has never been more glad and more unhappy to be on vocal rest. It is evident that Irene is using her inability to respond as a buffer to get things off her chest. Yet, the silence sits expectantly between them.

Seulgi searches through her bag for her phone, and clicks into her Notes app after she finds it. After ten seconds of furious attacks on the touch screen, she turns the rectangle of light towards Irene’s face.

Her note reads:

  * __When we get home, I will autograph your Blu-ray for you, but only if we make kimchi pancakes for breakfast tomorrow_ _


  * _You really have been holding out on us during group rehearsals, you sneak. I thought you'd lost your touch with age!_


  * _Thank you.  X 5_



 

Underneath the note, she's added a sloppy drawing of the emoji with its tongue out, cartoon bear-ears added on top of its round head.

It's inconsequential and neatly avoids the seriousness of everything that has been said.

Irene's face crinkles with fondness anyway.

It starts to snow outside the car.

Later, when Seulgi is burrowed within layers of blankets and surrounded by an army of hot packs, she thinks of the cryptic curve of Irene's smile in the dance room when she'd been putting her hair up. When Seulgi had looked at her and seen a stranger.

All through dinner, the memory of it had interrupted her safe, regular thoughts, clinging to her mind like a fever. She'd watched an hour of The Amazing Race afterwards and found that she still could not banish the image of it.

John Mayer sings about gravity in her ear while Seulgi slowly falls asleep, forgetting her nightly ritual of revisiting her fear, to dream of unpainted mouths bent with the weight of promise and intrigue.


	4. Chapter 4

It takes Irene six months after the onset of the symptoms to attach a diagnosis to the gradual shift in her relationship with Wendy. Six months of playful hip checks in the kitchen while cooking together, late night ice cream drives after Wendy gets her Korean license, stealing food off each other's plates to the wrinkled-nosed disgust of their bandmates, for Irene to confront the mass of emotions that has been slowly sedimenting inside her like grounds drifting to the bottom of a teacup.

Once she's identified the cause, however, she is quick to tackle this new development.

It happens on a normal day off.

They're sitting on the couch in the living room, an American rom-com playing on the TV. Wendy is in the middle of painting the big toe of Irene's left foot a delicate shade of lilac, when Irene clears her throat softly and says:

“I like you. And I think you like me too.”

The nail brush veers violently off its course and paints a wet streak along Irene's foot. Irene giggles.

“What are you talking about? Of course we like each other. We’re friends.” Wendy keeps her eyes on her hands, which busy themselves with the task of dabbing a cotton pad with acetone. Cool fingers wrap around Irene's ankle. “Hold still.” She removes the errant nail paint with two swipes of the damp cotton.

“Best friends,” Irene adds, unable to keep herself from grinning as she decides to indulge Wendy's little charade.

“Best friends,” Wendy agrees. She starts painting the next toe, which was standing at attention next to its comrades, anxiously awaiting its turn.

“Girlfriends?”

Wendy's hand jerks again but the paint remains safely confined to the space within the borders drawn by Irene's cuticles.

She does look up at that, glaring at Irene from underneath her recently cut bangs. Her hair is dark now, and the ends of it barely reach past the tops of her shoulders.

She's lovely and Irene's heart is full with it.

“What are you guys doing?” Seulgi's voice cuts through their staring match.

Their bandmate saunters out of the room she shares with Wendy, in her Superman sleep shorts and a rumpled concert t-shirt from the time they got to see Beyoncé live. Her face is imprinted with the embroidered daisies from the blanket her mother had gifted her last Christmas. Her hair has come alive, wild and puffy due to the moisture in the air. She squints sleepily behind the wire-rimmed glasses that Irene made her buy five pairs of (two for Irene who doesn't need glasses, and three for Seulgi who does) as she takes in the scene.

Irene feels a muddled emotion struggle to rear its head inside of her. She ignores it.

“Seungwan won't agree to be my girlfriend,” Irene complains, smirking impishly.

Wendy frowns at Irene from her end of the couch, brandishing the nail brush like a wand with which she intends to curse Irene into perpetual silence.

“Girlfriend?” Mild confusion takes the place deserted by lingering sleep on Seulgi’s face. She treats this piece of news as though Irene has just informed her that they were bickering over what to order for dinner. “Well, why isn't she saying yes? Wannie, our unnie’s...a catch.”

“I heard that pause, Kang Seulgi,” Irene warns.

Seulgi smiles sheepishly at her as she waddles into the open kitchen attached to their living room. “I was trying to find a word amazing enough to describe you, Joohyunnie,” she says, voice muffled as she sticks her head inside the fridge, probably looking for her chocolate milk.

“Joohyun likes dumb jokes these days,” Wendy says, carefully. “Now, will you please stop saying stupid things so I can finish doing your nails?”

“Doesn't sound like a joke to me.” Seulgi leans over the wooden island that separates the cooking space from the living room. She sticks a straw into the carton of milk she's foraged, and sucks noisily through it. An expression of bliss hijacks her face.

Irene smiles at her, pleased. “See, even Seulgi can see how serious I am. Stop playing coy, Seungwan-ah.”

 _“Even_ Seulgi? What is that supposed to—”

“What's gotten into the two of you?” Wendy asks, lifting Irene's feet off her lap so she can get to her feet. She wears a nervous circle on the lurid blue shag carpet Yeri had haggled for in a market in Hong Kong for a few moments, then whirls around and waves an accusatory finger at Seulgi. “Is this because of what I told you that night? I was tipsy and you said you wouldn't tell anyone!”

Seulgi raises her hands defensively. “I didn't tell her anything. She's just being weird!”

“Aha!” Irene shouts. While things are admittedly deviating from how she planned it in her head and they're all wildly off script (she hadn't even imagined Seulgi as an actor in this particular scene, a participant in their private moment), at least the pieces are finally falling into the right places. “So you _do_ like me.”

Wendy turns around to face Irene, red in the face and eyes darting like restless fish under the surface of a still lake. “How are you being so casual about this?”

Irene hugs the cushion in her lap to her chest. She doesn't know how to answer that.

All she knows is she woke one day to the sudden realization that she's been wondering about the taste Wendy’s smile for a while now. And Irene likes to allow herself the pleasure of having the things she wants. She hoards ridiculous plushies bought at airports. Purple journals and pen stands crowd the desk next to her bed. If she passes a shop window on their way to a schedule and sees a dress she likes, she has it delivered to their dorm within the week.

She knows she wants Wendy. She wants to be wanted by Wendy.

“Why can't it be simple?” Irene asks Wendy instead.

“I’ll be in my room if you guys need me but I also want to catch up on _Brooklyn 99_ , so please don't need me,” Seulgi says as she passes Wendy on her way back, armed with a bag of kale chips that Irene is trying to sneakily incorporate into their snacking menu. She reaches out to ruffle Wendy's hair slyly. Wendy bats her arm away.

Irene watches her go. The left leg of Seulgi's shorts has twisted and folded up around her thigh, two inches above the hem of the right leg, probably from all the tossing and turning she does in her sleep. The muscles in her calves pull her skin taut with each stride, sharply defined from long hours at the gym and dance practice.

The door closes behind Seulgi.

Wendy snaps her fingers to draw Irene's attention.

“And _that_ is why it can't be simple,” Wendy says pointedly.

Irene doesn't follow.

Wendy takes a deep breath, like she's about to go diving for pearls, then sits down on the couch next to her, much closer than she was seated before.

“Seulgi,” Wendy says, as if she's answering a deeply existential question that Irene hasn't asked.

Fingers of fear wrap around Irene's heart and squeeze. “Do you—do you like Seulgi?” Her face starts to warm, heralding incoming embarrassment. This was something she hadn't considered while plotting out her Big Reveal and now she feels stupid. _Of course, Wendy has a crush on Seulgi. Who wouldn't?_

“No, not since our debut,” Wendy says, voice strained.

“You guys kissed at the Halloween party last year,” Irene says, hating the way her voice wobbles. None of this is part of the script. She forgot to account for all the variables.

“Yeah, we did kiss last Halloween,” Wendy says, losing her air of seriousness for a few moments to grin stupidly at Irene. When she stops smiling at the memory—too fondly for Irene to take it as anything but a sign of doom—and finally speaks, her tone is the one she uses when she's trying to console Irene after one of her private tantrums. “We were drunk. That one time was enough for us to know that we're just close friends who also happen to find each other attractive. It was harmless.”

The exhale of relief escapes Irene before she is even aware of it. “Then, what is the problem?” she asks, voice too loud and too shrill in the quiet of the afternoon, drowning out the car commercial playing in the background.

Wendy looks at her like Irene's thirteen years old and she's the Maths tutor who used to come around to her house and painstakingly explain the difference between differentiation and integration.

(Rate of change versus area, if she recalls correctly.)

“Are you serious?”

“I don't understand what you're trying to say, Seungwan. What does Seulgi have to do with us?”

Wendy sighs, then pinches the bridge of her nose. Irene recognizes the exasperation in the slouch of her shoulders and feels more lost than ever. She's just bared her heart to her best friend but it seems more like she's unwittingly stepped into a convoluted game of tennis instead.

“I like you, so much,” Irene tries again, beseeching and placating at the same time. She puts a hand on Wendy's knee and tries to contain the sharp elation that rises in her chest when Wendy doesn't shy away from the touch. “I loved you already, as a friend. You take care of me and you make me laugh and you're just– _perfect_. Now, I have all these romantic feelings for you. I don't know what to do. I thought you felt the same way.”

Wendy takes a deep breath, then moves her hand away to look her in the eyes. “I do feel the same way, Joohyun. Maybe even more.”

“If you're worried about what the other girls will say—”

“I’m not,” Wendy cuts her off. “Seulgi already knows. I told her like a week ago. I was hung up on you, too. Obviously, I couldn't talk to you about it and I had to talk to someone. My guess is that Sooyoung and Yerim probably have an idea as well.”

Irene blinks slowly. The situation seems to be resolving itself yet she can't help but feel like she's missing something. The awkwardness that has wedged itself between them is still solid and immovable. She scoots along the couch till her side is pressed up against Wendy's, and loops her arm through Wendy’s. She takes one small hand between both of hers. Their fingers tangle together automatically.

“Seungwan,” Irene breathes out, looking up through her lashes. She knows the effect it has on people and isn't above using it on her dearest friend. “Do you wanna go out with me? Next Friday, when we have the day off. We can do dinner at that new Italian place. Not as friends.”

Wendy’s gaze slides down to Irene’s lips. She is a willing quarry, ensnared. “Okay,” she says, eyes almost unfocused, the words almost automatic.

Irene beams, almost pressing a kiss against the pouty bow of Wendy's mouth in joy before she reigns in the urge.

It can wait for after their first date.

 

\--

 

“You look really nice.”

Irene is drinking a glass of water in front of the refrigerator, looking at a watercolour of a dawn soaked beach Seulgi has fixed there with airplane-shaped magnets. The artistic signature (different from Seulgi's cutesy autograph signature) is a smudge at the bottom. She turns around mid-swallow at the voice behind her. The skirt of her black dress flares with the movement, then settles along her legs, falling mid-thigh.

“That's Seulgi's, isn't it?” Irene asks before she thinks of doing something more appropriate, like saying _thank you_ , or smiling demurely, or returning the compliment.

(In her defence, Seulgi was at the front of her mind.)

Wendy's wearing a navy silk shirt, a gorgeous shade that reminds Irene of the darkening sky just after sunset. She loves it, had insisted that Seulgi buy it when they'd visited the Burberry store together a few months ago.

A loud huff from Wendy’s mouth stirs her curled bangs as she rolls her eyes. “She made me change my outfit five times before she threw this shirt at my face. She said she hasn’t had the chance to wear it yet. Also, that she’ll kill me if I spill anything on it, as if _I’m_ the one who goes around spilling food!”

Wendy’s hair is in loose waves, a hint of rouge on her pale cheeks. She’s put on a shade of lipstick darker than the one she usually prefers; Irene can see the teeth-marks where she’s worried her lip. Affection swells in her heart, like applause at the end of one of their performances.

“She didn’t have to worry. You look pretty,” Irene says, walking towards Wendy. She reaches around to set her empty glass in the sink, and feels Wendy shiver at the proximity. Something like giddiness, laced with a generous dose of nerves, shoots through her veins at the reaction. At the thought the cut runs deep on both sides, that she's not the only one afflicted. She doesn’t move away, choosing to gently trace the soft material running along Wendy’s forearm. “You always look pretty,” she adds, soft like a confession.

“When did you get so flirty?” Wendy laughs, flustered. A faint blush has settled on the bridge of her nose. “Save it for the actual date.”

“There’s more where that came from,” Irene assures, flashing a cheeky grin. On a whim, she fixes the collar of Wendy’s shirt, smoothing it down around her neck, a gesture that they both know is unnecessary but not unwelcome. “Let’s go. Manager oppa’s been texting me impatiently for the past fifteen minutes.”

 

\--

 

Their romance progresses as smoothly as the course Irene had charted in her head during the nights she lay awake and alone in her small double-bed, staring at the wall next to it that she shared with Seulgi and Wendy.

Sometimes sounds would float through the wall: thumping bass from Seulgi's Bose speakers, frequent muffled shrieks of laughter, raised voices during the occasional squabble, and once, a loud thud that had sent vibrations through the wood and plaster, which turned out to be Seulgi falling over while trying a handstand on a dare.

Not much changes in their easy relationship. There's a sharp increase in the lingering touches, of the friendly as well as the more-than-friendly kind. Their initial fancy dates devolve into free afternoons spent baking together, and movie marathons in Irene's room with the Wendy's fairy lights creating a wreath of glittering stars around them.

Soon, Wendy drops all pretense of still rooming with Seulgi. Irene welcomes the invasion of her privacy with open arms and a new toothbrush. It's not like they haven't shared rooms before but something feels oddly momentous about this change.

They don't know then, of course, that the room switch bookmarks the beginning of The Middle.

(At that time, it had felt more like The End.)

Seulgi’s presence at the dorm tapers down from the occasional but regular sighting to a rare occurrence. The rest of the girls are too caught up in their own personal bubbles to attach any significance to it. After all, break time is a gift horse they have learnt not to look in the mouth, and they prefer to spend it apart from each other; being around someone constantly can be abrasive even for the closest of friends.

So, when Yeri poses a question to Irene on a random afternoon, Irene doesn't think much of it.

“When was the last time you saw Seulgi unnie?”

Irene takes a long sip from her glass of mango juice before answering. “I think last Monday? She had that Adidas photoshoot. I saw her leaving for it when I was fixing up breakfast.” She tilts the glass to tip the residue of the juice into her waiting mouth.  She savors the pulpy bits like hard candy before she swallows.

They're spending the afternoon catching up on months worth of a new Korean drama. Wendy is in their room, an hour deep into a long overdue Skype session with her parents and sister. Joy is out meeting old friends. Irene doesn't know where Seulgi is.

“Aren't you worried?”

“Worried? No.” A pause, as she deliberates. “Should I be?”

Through her peripheral vision, Irene catches Yeri stiffening. It's a telltale sign for anyone who's grown up with siblings—the standard deer-in-headlights look that takes over one’s face when they accidentally reveal too much to a parent in conversation.

“What is it, Yerim?” she presses. They'll have to rewatch the episode, because Irene has completely turned her body towards Yeri. She knows that none of her bandmates can lie effectively to her when she targets the full force of her attention on them like the stereotypical lone bulb over an interrogation table.

Yeri tries to hide her nervous squirm by shifting along the couch to lie half-down along its length, putting her feet in Irene's lap. “I was just asking. It feels like ages since I've played video games with her.” Her tone is overtly casual.

Irene narrows her eyes, not gullible enough to take the response as the entire truth. “Seulgi's been busy. We all have been.”

There is substance to that statement, regardless of whatever Yeri's trying to hint at. Rumors of an upcoming girl group debut under their company has kept them all on edge, the tension growing the longer the period after their last comeback is left uninterrupted. The ranks of talented trainees waiting in the wings has only grown over time, and at this point it is a ticking time bomb minutes away from detonating. The flurry of solo activities filling up the slots in their schedules only made the edge of unease keener. Easier to fall off of.

Perhaps that is what Yeri is trying to convey, through her half-truths and abortive warnings. That Seulgi is one step away from a stumble. As the leader, it is Irene's job to know these things. To keep a check on growing feelings of inadequacy, dissatisfaction, or otherwise, in her members. She hasn't noticed anything out of the ordinary, but maybe she hasn't been looking hard enough; her burgeoning romantic life could have made her remiss in her duties, could have made her vision tunnel to sunlit moments spent trading lazy kisses with her girlfriend. Everything else in between shrunk to minutiae.

She's about to continue her line of questioning when they hear the key turning in the lock of the front door. It could be Joy, returning from lunch with her school friends.

It's not Joy.

It's Seulgi, squinting into the cozy gloom of the living room. She’s in her grey hoodie, a Niké cap, and wrinkled sweatpants. A messy ponytail with stray hairs spiraling out from the hair-tie dangles in front of her right shoulder. She looks like she hasn't slept in over a week, which is absurd because Irene knows she's had a chiefly free week.

(Recently unearthed insecurities notwithstanding, Irene is fairly confident in her knowledge of her bandmates’ professional engagements.)

“Hi guys, what's up?” Seulgi greets them. Her voice is fraying at the edges.

Yeri glances at Irene with a remarkable intensity, as if silently requesting her to not address Seulgi. She responds with a tone that's in complete contrast to the look on her face, “Hey, Seulgi! I wanted to show you this new game. Do you wanna play it together after Joohyun unnie and I finish watching TV?”

Irene watches with furrowed brows as Seulgi sighs, long and drawn. “Maybe not today. I’m really beat. I think I’ll sleep until dinner.” The ends of her words mingle with the beginnings in her haste and obvious tiredness.

“Where were you? Why do you look as exhausted as we are in the middle of a comeback?” Irene asks. She doesn't mean for it to come out sharp and confrontational but it does.

Seulgi's in the middle of pulling off her sneakers–laces still untied despite the number of times Irene's told her to stop doing that–and she almost falls over at the unintentional belligerence in Irene's voice.

“I was with Sunmi. We were hanging out, the usual, and got carried away. You know how it goes. Guess I forgot to…well, sleep properly.” It's a flimsy explanation. Seulgi finishes putting away her shoes in the rack next to the door, then walks over to the couch, dusting her hands on her pants. “You really didn't notice that I’ve been staying over at hers for the past few days?” It's more a statement than question.

“I’m not your babysitter,” Irene says, a sudden rage rising in her and spilling over to tinge her words.

Seulgi’s eyes widen at that. She opens her mouth to respond, then just shakes her head as if dissuading herself from investing herself in a lost cause. Instead, she yawns and knuckles at bags under her eyes.

(The anger inside Irene swells. And swells.)

“See you at dinner, Yerim-ie. Maybe if I feel up to it we can play your new game afterwards.” Seulgi throws her cap at Yeri with a weary smile, who catches it with a mollifying smile in response. She disappears into her room without a further word to Irene.

“What's wrong with her?” Irene asks aloud, to Yeri, to the ignored television that's moved onto the next episode, and to the empty glasses on the coffee table. She feels equally bewildered and furious. The fact that these emotions are flooding her without her permission, unchecked, fuels her irrational annoyance. It’s a vicious circle.

“That was harsh, unnie,” Yeri says simply. She shifts her toes along the cotton edge of Irene's shorts, getting comfortable again. “You know you've been a bit absent, lately. Seulgi's just tired. I'm sure she didn't mean to make you angry.”

“How am I supposed to keep tabs on her if she doesn't tell me anything?”

Yeri shrugs. “Just talk to her once in a while? Or ask Seungwan-unnie. That would probably be easier for you.” She turns her face sideways, hair splaying messily and bunching up against the cushion she's resting her head on. The flickering light from the TV lends an unnatural sobriety to her features. An electric prophet. “You should do it sooner rather than later, though.”

Irene forgets to take her advice.

Two weeks later, their management calls them in to inform them of their plans of a hiatus for Red Velvet.

Seulgi announces that she's signed on to be the opening act for the US leg of Sunmi's American tour. That she's leaving within the end of next month. That they have a duet slated for release in a week. And that Seulgi's aiming to get her own solo album out before the end of the year.

Irene's not surprised by the fact that she’s the only one surprised.

She nurtures the heady mix of shock and betrayal over the next five years. She waters it with fresh disappointment with each day that passes without a word from Seulgi. It blooms under the shade of her ego.

The sucker punch of Seulgi's physical departure from their lives makes a keen observer of her (she had, after all, missed all the signs) and she sees the break up with Wendy coming from a mile away.

It happens when they're just shy of their third anniversary, borne mainly out of Irene's envy for the bond that Wendy and Seulgi carry through the years, how it deepens despite the infrequency of their correspondence. How neatly it alienates her from their world of secrets, of inside jokes, and of long late night video calls.

(Once, Irene acts out after a bad bout of brooding.

She asks Wendy if Seulgi had started freezing Irene out because of their relationship, if her radio silence was a result of her jealousy. She asks whether she'd been mistaken when she'd confessed her feelings to Wendy, whether it was actually Seulgi who had been secretly harbouring romantic feelings for Wendy, instead of the other way around.

Wendy just looks at her like she's grown another head and laughs her concerns away.

Irene abandons that theory, but something about the alarm in Wendy's eyes stays with her long after that fight, buried in the recesses of her mind like a seed waiting for water.)

The petty spats (more often Irene's fault than not) eventually erode all vestiges of romance that they try to sustain, until they decide that an amicable breakup is better than turning from best friends into bitter exes.

Over the years that follow, she meets her bandmates for coffee, for lunches, for drinks. She smiles vacantly whenever they discuss the missing member, trading tidbits about Seulgi's personal life, laughing at the silly tour photos she occasionally sends in the Red Velvet group chat, at the idea of their very own Kang Seulgi slowly evolving into an American popstar.

She pretends that she's not aware of the fact that they try to curtail these discussions in her presence, that the topic gets brought back up whenever Irene excuses herself to take a phone call or go to the bathroom. She starts offering to get a round of drinks from the bar more frequently.

She pretends that she's not constantly worrying at the wound that resembles the crescent of Seulgi's smile, like she used to tongue the gap left behind by a tooth in her childhood.

She pretends that she does not relish the pain.


	5. Chapter 5

They never get around to making those kimchi pancakes.

The very next morning, much to Seulgi's confusion, Irene regresses to wearing the invulnerable facade she’s used as a shield since their reunion. Any progress made by their one-sided conversation in the car is erased.

Seulgi can't help but wonder if this implies that Irene has decided that their friendship is unsalvageable.

Their duet performance for the teaser forces them into close quarters over the next few days. Not that Seulgi gets many chances to try to talk to Irene during the practices. Irene powers through the dreary hours mechanically, playing the part of the pleasant yet aloof colleague.

It reminds Seulgi of the awkwardness of their early trainee days, in the worst way.

That doesn't deter Seulgi, not by much. She ferrets information out of a reluctant Wendy, and sneaks into Irene's room one night while the latter is asleep. A lifetime's worth of training as a dancer pays off as Seulgi manages to tip-toe into the room, and spitefully sign the Blu-Rays Irene keeps behind the glass doors of her dresser, all without waking up the light sleeper.

In the act of graffitiing her bandmate’s possessions without her knowledge like some morally bereft delinquent, Seulgi makes a baffling discovery.

Apart from the footage from Seulgi’s concerts, Irene’s dresser also proudly displays physical copies of Seulgi’s solo albums, magazine features, concert goods, and rolled-up posters.

She has no idea how Irene’s managed to get her hands on those, but she’s not stupid enough to investigate the matter.

Breaking and entering is one thing. Being bold enough to talk about her rash decisions in the light of the day is another.

Irene, on her part, never mentions the stealthily autographed items, nor does she bring up the invasion of her privacy, but Seulgi knows that she _knows_. Not much escapes Irene's notice.

It's a testament to how wide the rift between them is, in spite of their seemingly normal behavior on an average day. In a world where things had remained the same, Irene would have chewed Seulgi out for touching her things without permission.

It's kinda pathetic, but Seulgi finds herself feeling wistful for their dumb fights.

Regardless of her rather desperate feelings, Seulgi doesn’t dare ask Wendy about the _Official Kang Seulgi_ merchandise Irene's been hoarding. She knows that Wendy's only answer would be a cryptic, knowing smile. And Seulgi doesn't want to begin parsing the meaning of that.

In the privacy of her own head, Seulgi practices pretending that she never came across the collection.

Compared to the setback with Irene, the result of her efforts at mending bridges with the rest of the group appears almost tremendous.

The daily grind and the mindless routine definitely help. They’re always in each other's faces,commiserating over their hectic schedule, helping each other with new routines, or falling asleep on each other's shoulders in the vans on the way to practice.

It's not a huge change from the friendship she had fostered with them over the years, but now, their banter doesn't have to rely on shoddy internet connection or scheduling around time differences. That alone is enough to wear away at any lingering awkwardness, and smooth out the rough edges that have formed with distance.

It also helps that other girls are more open, more appreciative of how hard she’s trying. It's not like they have any reason to mistrust her. She didn't go radio silence on _them_ , after all.

Still, it feels like a victory when they make inside jokes and Seulgi can join in with their laughter. Earlier, those moments would make her feel awkward, and an unpleasant sensation would lodge in her throat like a fishbone.

Not that they get much time for joking around or trading stories anymore.

As the days get colder and shorter, and their comeback looms closer, they have no choice but to spend every waking hour at the SM building.

They finally have the creative control they’ve always yearned for, but it brings with it a barrage of meetings with the A&R team, producers, composers, and lyricists.

Nights bleed into early mornings, and meals become an afterthought that only come to mind when hunger threatens to inconvenience more important things like dance practice.

(Their ‘image’ handlers secretly approve, smugly advising them on how to make themselves feel full on a diet of lemon water and celery sticks.

There’s an abundance of faux-sympathetic comments about their ages, about how the industry isn’t kind to groups so old, so forgotten.

Seulgi hates them with a passion. Emboldened by the confidence she's built up over the years of working solo and fending for herself, she makes her displeasure quite obvious to The Powers That Be.

The team is replaced within the span of a week by a better one. This time, it's made up of actual nutritionists with useful advice for a change.)

The busy blur of activity suits Seulgi.

After her time abroad, she’s accustomed to working hard on a tight schedule, with little time for idle chit-chat; while she developed a friendly rapport with the loyal crew that followed her around for the main part of five years, none of her professional relationships ever bordered on the intimacy she shares with her bandmates.

It’s harder than she thought it would be to go back to a routine of rubbing elbows while brushing teeth, or bumping hips while juggling bowls of oats and fruit.

Naturally, she feels slightly cramped after years of having the leg room to stretch her independence.

However, despite the pleasant haze of tiredness colouring her days, and all the old insecurities that plague her whenever she undertakes a new project, things that Seulgi would rather ignore start to stand out in sharp focus.

Her mind picks apart seemingly unrelated occurrences, as though a logical thread links them and if she squinted harder, it would magically reveal itself to her.

She stays up at night counting imaginary sheep in her head (oddly, all of them resemble the bald one that had charged at her once, a lifetime ago) and tries not to wake Wendy with the sounds of her anxious movements.

On the more annoying nights, her thoughts whirl like birds frenzied by the smell of storm. She takes to going out for a midnight run around the gated block that their residential building sits in.

The freezing air, coupled with the ache in her protesting muscles, usually help to corral her stray musings into a shadowy pen, where she disregards their existence until the next restless night.

She gets stuck in this cycle, flip-flopping between exhausted and fretful.

It all comes to a head on the single weekend of rest that they’re allowed in December.

They get forty-eight blissfully free hours. Their schedules are wiped clean of recordings, vocal lessons, and the harsh lighting of the SM basements that makes their reflections look wan and unflattering in the mirrors that line the walls.

It’s icy and unforgiving outside, so it’s unsurprising when the five of them unanimously decide to spend the weekend indoors.

On Friday night, after the girls finish an unhurried (and unsatisfactory) dinner of sparse salads, Wendy hooks an urgent arm around the crook of Seulgi's arm, and leads her away from the dining table, out of earshot of the others.

“Hey, what is it?” Seulgi asks, mind still on the unpleasant taste of the cherry tomatoes Irene had forced her to eat after catching her in the act of covertly moving unwanted vegetables to Wendy’s plate. “I’ll do the dishes, don't worry about it. I didn’t eat my greens, so I have to suck it up and face the punishment.” She frowns, displeased at her thoughts circling back to their beautiful dictator.

“That's not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Why are you whispering?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Seulgi can see Joy and Irene putting away the leftovers into boxes, and moving soiled utensils and plates to the sink.

Yeri is still seated at the table, mindlessly thumbing at her phone, but her head is slightly cocked towards them, almost innocuously.

Seulgi isn’t fooled. Wendy catches the direction of her gaze and draws them further into the shadows of the unlit living room.

“So,” she starts, then pauses as if she’s lost the momentum to say what she was going to.

One of her hands grips Seulgi's wrist so tightly that it's beginning to cut off the circulation there, while the other absently scratches at her elbow. It’s a tic Seulgi recognizes, a sign of anxiety. Wendy’s nails look unusually short, recently trimmed.

When she finally speaks, the words leave Wendy in an breathless rush. “I—I kind of invited someone over. Can you please sleep in Joohyun’s room tonight?”

Seulgi's eyebrows raise at the request.

Wendy’s not the most social one out of them, even on a regular day when they’re free to do as they please, and she’s especially hermit-like in their days off between hectic schedules. In all the years they’d lived together, Seulgi had never seen Wendy bring a friend to their old dorm.

Then it clicks, with the satisfaction of a puzzle piece slotting neatly into place. Seulgi doesn't fight the smirk that takes her lips hostage, as a sympathetic sort of excitement bubbles up in her chest.

“Someone?” she asks, prying each one of Wendy's anxious fingers off her wrist. She tries to rub colour back into the marks they leave behind on her skin.

“A friend.”

“A _lady_ friend?” Seulgi waggles her eyebrows, positively impish.

It's not often that she has the pleasure of seeing her usually composed and level-headed best friend reduced to a fidgeting mess. It's practically her right, as a friend, to wring every last drop of enjoyment out of the situation that she possibly can.

Wendy clamps her hand over Seulgi's mouth at that, knocking her upper lip painfully against her teeth.

“Could you _be_ any louder!?” Wendy whisper-scolds. Her eyes flick towards the kitchen, from where sounds of activity and indistinct conversation float towards them, then back to Seulgi's face. “Who even says _lady friend_? How old are you, five?”

Seulgi tries to respond but her words blend into a gibberish that barely escapes from the gaps between Wendy's fingers.

Wendy finally has the sense to look apologetic as she ungags Seulgi, as if remembering that she's asked for a favour that hasn’t been granted yet.

“Well, am I wrong?” Seulgi grins cheekily. She’s not unfamiliar with the pangs of new love, and she knows that it can make idiots out of intelligent people like her best friend. “Say the words, Seungwan-ah!”

Wendy looks like she's torn between strangling Seulgi, and getting down on her knees to beg a little more. Her hands clawing at the air, as she appears to have a heated internal debate. “Okay, fine. You're right. I do have a—a _lady friend_ coming over. So, will you please, please, be the good friend that I know you are, and leave us alone for the rest of the night?”

It's an irresistible opening for Seulgi to keep needling Wendy, and she takes it. She’s not usually this difficult, not with Wendy, but it’s a seemingly harmless outlet for all the strange energy that has been simmering under her skin ever since her return to Korea.

Her fingers curl around her chin as puts on a thoughtful air. “I don't know, Wan-ah. You know how picky I am about sleeping in my own bed. I just did the laundry, too. My sheets smell so nice.”

A scarlet-tinged annoyance spreads over Wendy's features as she visibly tries to hold onto her composure, and her hands ball into loose fists at her side.

Seulgi almost feels bad for being so uncharacteristically annoying, but she’s already committed herself to the task of irritating Wendy. She can't possibly back out now, consequences be damned.

So, she keeps at the charade, caressing her imaginary goatee with relish.

“You don't have to do the dishes tonight, Seulgi-ah. I'll do them for you!”

Seulgi hums evasively, her brow folding into pleats as she deliberates the offer.

“Okay, how about all your chores for a week?” There’s a mild note of panic in Wendy’s voice now.

“A month?”

Wendy takes a long breath through her nose, a vein standing out in bas-relief at her temple.

Just as Seulgi starts to think that she’s perhaps pushed her a little too far, Wendy deflates with a resigned sigh.

She extends a hand towards Seulgi's chest, as if they've just settled a business transaction. “You drive quite a hard bargain, Kang Seulgi,” she says.

The taut line of Wendy's shoulder sags like a cut bowstring, the tension dissipating instantly.

Seulgi laughs, relieved that Wendy’s not actually angry at her. She happily shakes the proffered hand hard enough to possibly rattle the bone of Wendy's arm in its socket.

“What can I say? Trying to make it in the States as a solo artist really improves your negotiation skills. I guess they could make me the manager of a rookie group now. I’d ace it.”

That draws a small smile from Wendy, as the angry flush fades from her face and neck. “I'll take your word for it. Go easy on me next time, alright, Ms. Future Manager?”

“What are you two losers plotting in the dark?” Joy has finished in the kitchen and wandered over to where the two are huddled together. She turns the lights on in the living room and fixes them with an appraising look. Wendy and Seulgi blink at her innocently, and then chorus together: “Nothing.”

With her eyes still narrowed suspiciously, Joy deadpans, “Sure, I totally believe that.”

“You should know by now that it's useless trying to keep things from us.” Yeri pops up behind Joy’s shoulder, phone raised to her face. Her attention is half on whatever her hands are busy with, and half on the pair of conspirators sweating under Joy's scrutiny. “It’s not like we’re Joohyun-unnie. We have no shame. We will investigate and we will find out!”

As if on cue, a hand materializes around the column of wall blocking off the kitchen from the living room, and smacks the back of Yeri’s head. “Say that again, Kim Yerim.”

Irene’s body joins her disembodied hand and rest of the group in the living room. A mild look of curiosity barely settles on her face before it’s gone, as though it only took her a split second to decide that it’s not worth her time finding out the context of the conversation.

“Sorry!” Yeri says, not sounding sorry at all. She looks more upset about the fact that she was caught. “What a stupid slip of tongue. Obviously, I meant to say Seulgi-unnie.”

“Yah, Yerim-ah. Isn't it way past your bedtime, anyway?”

Seulgi gets a very mature response to that in the form of a rude hand gesture.

“Oh, that reminds me! We were planning a horror movie marathon. Any of you guys up for it?” Joy asks, seemingly abandoning her interrogation for now.

“I was planning to read for a bit, and then go to sleep early.” Irene pets Yeri’s head close to the spot where she'd just hit her with a tender smile that’s part motherly and part childlike. Yeri tolerates the touch with a disgruntled expression belied by the affectionate glint in her eyes.

Then, Irene’s expression turns a bit more serious. “You guys should do the same. Remember, this break is supposed to be for resting. We’ve got a comeback ahead of us.”

“Okay, mom. Please don’t confiscate my phone!” Yeri teases, and braces herself for another attack by cowering behind Joy’s imposing stature. Joy laughs and ducks out of Irene’s way so she doesn't get caught up in the crossfire.

Irene just giggles in response, more amused than offended. The break seems to have put her in a really good mood. “Seulgi, the dishes are waiting for you in the sink,” Irene reminds after she quietens down, and then she’s gone, disappearing to her room without a further word.

“Well, are you guys in or not?” Joy prompts, after the silence Irene leaves behind stretches too long without a response.

A loud yawn escapes from Wendy's mouth as she stretches up on the balls of her feet, arms raised above her head. “Sorry girls! I’m really tired. I'll probably pass out as soon as I hit the bed.” She hooks her elbow behind her head as she forces a yawn again for good measure, eyelids drooping. “Have fun, though! Don’t stay up too late.”

Seulgi barely stifles a chuckle at how thickly she’s laying it on. The effort must show on her face, because Wendy glares at her once her back is to Yeri and Joy. Then, she starts moving her eyebrows in alarming, ambiguous circles.

It looks like she’s trying to communicate non-verbally. Maybe she's trying to tell Seulgi to keep her visitor a secret from the _maknaes_?

Whatever her intention, it takes all of Seulgi’s willpower to not burst into a full-bodied cackle. Before she can fully lose her composure, she shoves Wendy in the direction of their bedroom. “Goodnight, Seungwan-ah. I’ll join these two, so don’t wait up for me!” she says cheerfully, before Wendy’s eyebrows can detach themselves from the force of the acrobatics she’s attempting with them.

(She mentally congratulates herself for not stumbling over the implicit lie in her words.)

Wendy smiles, visibly relieved. She pauses to brush her hand over Seulgi’s shoulder as she makes her way across the living room, whispering a quick and almost inaudible “thanks” under her breath as she passes.

“That was kinda weird,” Joy says.

“What was?” Yeri asks absently, busy with her phone again.

“Don’t you think Seungwan-unnie was acting a bit weird?”

Seulgi shrugs with one shoulder, tilting her head as she tries to look offhandish. “She’s probably just really tired. You know how cranky she can get on a diet.”

All traces of curiosity leave Joy’s face. Her bottom lip juts out in sympathy on Wendy’s behalf. Even Yeri turns her full attention on Seulgi at the words, tucking her phone away in the back pocket of her shorts.

(This time, Seulgi has to mentally slap herself for her poor choice of an excuse.)

“Hey, no need to worry, guys! She’s fine, I promise!” Seulgi assures, as sincerely as she can, guilt flooding through her system for needlessly worrying them. “Like I said, she’s just tired. Normal tired, like we all are. Nothing to be concerned about. I’d tell you if it was.”

“You sure?” Yeri asks, face still twisted with concern.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Seulgi laughs nervously, jamming her thumbs into the front pockets of her jeans. “How about you guys go and set up the movie? I’ll join you after I finish the dishes.”

Wendy forgot about her end of the deal in her rush to escape, but Seulgi doesn’t really mind. She’d only been messing with Wendy for a laugh, not for any ulterior motives. She hasn’t decided whether she’ll hold Wendy to her promise of doing her chores for a month. It seems like a mean thing to do, and Seulgi’s already filled her quota for the year a few minutes earlier.

(Maybe it can be a one-off thing, when she’s feeling particularly lazy, or extremely tired.)

After Yeri and Joy leave to set their TV up and decide on a crappy gore flick, Seulgi gets greeted by the hole she’s walked into while she was distracted by how much fun she having teasing Wendy.

A hole shaped like Irene's bedroom door.

It has been years since she’s shared a room with Irene, let alone a bed. Add the weird funk Seulgi’s been in to the mix, and there's a recipe for a potential debacle.

The thought of what the night has in store for her makes her scrub harder at the dishes, until there's a messy spray of water around the sink due to the intensity of her efforts. She gets soaked up to her rolled up sleeves in soap suds.

She wipes down the kitchen counter and the dining table after she's done mopping up all the excess water she’d gotten on the kitchen floor and sink. Once she's run out of flat surfaces to shine, she considers going for a long run around the block to clear her mind.

But the muffled screaming coming from the third bedroom, tucked away at the far end of the apartment past their tiny laundry room, reminds her that she can use the movie marathon to the same end.

With any luck, by the time Yeri and Joy kick her out of their room, Irene will already be fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

Luck, as always, is not on her side.

Joy barely makes it through the first few minutes of their second film—it's more comical than scary, but that doesn't stop Seulgi and Yeri from watching it with rapt, unblinking fascination—before she tips over onto her blue bedspread and promptly falls asleep with her mouth slightly open.

Yeri, the consummate night-owl, fares slightly better. But by the time the credits start rolling, even she is blinking blearily at the scrolling text.

Sometime during the first movie, she had cuddled into Seulgi's side and wrapped her arms around Seulgi's middle securely. After the screen goes blank, she turns her face and yawns into the material of Seulgi's hoodie, getting a bit of drool on the thick lettering of the logo stitched into the front.

Seulgi takes that as her signal to leave. She gently tucks Yeri into bed, pulling the comforter up to her chin. On a whim, she plants a kiss on top of her mussed up hair. Yeri hums in a pleased sort of way and mumbles incoherently, eyes already closed.

Once she's out in the living room, Seulgi realizes that she's still in the uncomfortable jeans and hoodie she’s been wearing all day.

A thin strip of light illuminates the space beneath the door to the room she shares with Wendy, but she’s loathe to knock and ask for a change of clothes.

She doesn’t want to interrupt the activities that might be keeping its occupants awake, although a tiny part of her desperately wishes to know just who Wendy’s secret guest is.

That will have to wait until tomorrow. Seulgi fully intends to corner Wendy for a post-breakfast grilling session.

For now, she’ll just make do with raiding Irene’s wardrobe.

She’s so busy with thoughts of falling asleep wrapped in clothes that smell like Irene’s new fabric softener—she’s caught whiffs of it in passing, delicate and flowery, and comes in a limited edition purple bottle—that it takes her all of five steps past the threshold of Irene’s bedroom to realize that the lights are still on in this room as well.

To her belated dismay, Irene is still awake.

She's swaddled in two different blankets, one wrapped around her head, like a baby. The red tip of her nose is buried between the pages of a thick novel. She doesn’t look up from the book, but she doesn’t startle at Seulgi’s voice either.

“Oh. You’re still up?”

A lazy smirk curves the line of Irene’s mouth until a responding warmth tightens Seulgi’s throat. “No, Seulgi, I’m obviously sleep-reading. Can’t you tell?”

“Ha! You’ve gotten so much funnier lately.” Seulgi feels a bit more at ease at the ice-breaker. Maybe this won’t be a disaster, after all. “Been working on your variety skills?” She walks over to the tiny space that doubles as a walk-in closet, on the side of the room opposite to the bed.

The bed itself is a small double, and had come with the apartment. Instead of being placed in the middle of the room as it had been originally, Irene has it pushed up against the left wall, bordering a window that opens to an uninterrupted view of the night sky.

It’s overcast outside and the gibbous moon looks more like a car headlight smothered by winter fog.

Seulgi passes the scene of her crime—Irene’s neatly-arranged dresser—on her way. She automatically flinches, then glances at Irene to see if she’s noticed. Irene’s still engrossed in her book.

Strangely, Seulgi can't make out the familiar lines of the albums and related paraphernalia anymore. They had been displayed at the front when she’d last visited (or rather, trespassed).

“Joohyun-ah? I’m borrowing some clothes to sleep in. Didn't really wanna disturb Seungwan.” When she doesn’t really get a response, she starts rummaging through piles of neatly folded clothes—organized by purpose and colour, in that order—until she spots a familiar looking item of clothing.

“Hey, this is mine!” Seulgi turns around, armed with a stupid grin and an oversized sweatshirt.

It had vanished mysteriously from her belongings just before she’d left for the US. It had been one of her favourites too, thick enough to keep her warm yet comfortable enough to sleep in.

She had chalked its disappearance up to just one of those things that happened when you lived with four other girls, with whom you also shared clothes occasionally. She hadn't expected to see it turn up in Irene’s possession after so many years.

“I had the same one in white, remember?” Irene turns away to set her book on the bedside table. Her hair falls in a curtain around her head to obscure her face.

“Mine got ruined in the wash. I think it was when—hmm—when Yeri’s Slytherin socks got into the laundry with my whites. Remember when she had her weird sock obsession phase?” She laughs, and Seulgi catches the gleam of her teeth through the veil of her hair. “I guess I borrowed yours, and—um. I probably forgot to return it.”

“Huh,” Seulgi mumbles, digesting the revelation. She’s fixated on how Irene's still got her back to Seulgi, occupied with something blocked from Seulgi's view.

She forces herself to snap out of it. She’s not going to let her tendency to overthink ruin the easy atmosphere. “And you kept it, after all this time! That’s so cute, Joohyun-ah. I didn’t know you could be so nostalgic.” Seulgi keeps her tone overtly teasing to disguise the thick emotion pooling in her chest, like an hourglass filling with molasses instead of sand.

To distract herself from the sensation, Seulgi promptly starts stripping out of her clothes. Once she’s down to her bra and underwear, she balls up the soiled clothes and tosses them into the (nauseatingly cute, bunny-shaped) laundry hamper near the door.

“You must have worn it when you were missing me, right?” she wonders out loud when Irene doesn’t respond to her earlier taunt. A sense of accomplishment rushes through her when her voice doesn’t waver.

The material of the sweater is soft from use; it’s still a rich red that hasn’t faded, thanks to Irene’s fastidious approach to laundry.

Seulgi’s in the middle of pulling it over her head, vision and hearing impeded by the fabric, when she hears Irene scoff. “I just really liked it so I kept it, okay? Don’t be so sentimental.” Her voice is oddly strangled, pitched too high. “And please, put on some pants.”

“Like you haven’t seen me practically naked a million times already!” Seulgi counters, managing to get her arms through the holes after two attempts.

“We’re not backstage!” Irene protests.

Once her head is clear of the front of her shirt, and her nose has acclimated to the heady scent of detergent and wildflowers, Seulgi notices the eyes laser-focused on the bareness of her legs. It’s as if Irene intends to shame her into getting fully dressed with the brazenness of her gaze.

Obviously, that only makes Seulgi forget her resolution to maintain the illusion of peace. She grins at Irene, and flops face first on the empty side of the bed, foregoing the process of putting on pants entirely.

“You’re so immature,” Irene says without bite. And then she whacks Seulgi’s head with a foam dolphin that she seemingly pulls out of thin air.

It's probably what she'd been fussing with earlier.

“Immature! Me? Says the thirty-something who keeps stuffed animals near her bed to attack innocent people,” Before Irene can draw her weapon again, Seulgi plucks it out of her grasp. She rolls over so she's sprawled out on her back, and holds the plushie aloft to inspect it. The dolphin’s skin is made of felt, in a shade of blue almost verging on violet. One of its button eyes is missing.

She'd almost fallen asleep back in Yeri's bed but Seulgi feels wide awake right now. She's hyper-aware of everything—the barely-there weight of the toy in her hand, the cotton of the duvet against her calves, the slight burn in her arm from holding it up.

And she’s also aware of the hairs on her thighs rising, in spite of the heat being pumped into the room through the vents near the ceiling.

“You know I can see your goosebumps, right? It's cold. Stop being a child and grab some pajama bottoms. They're on the bottom shelf, left corner.”

Seulgi angles her head so she can look up at Irene, and smirks insolently. “Feel free to take a picture if you'd like.”

Irene shakes her head, chagrined, and reaches for the plushie as if to hit Seulgi again. The left corner of her mouth pulls upwards incongruously, and a remote part of Seulgi feels triumphant.

She rolls away from her outstretched arms, and almost faceplants onto the carpet when the mattress suddenly gives way to empty space.

It's not a very big bed.

Reeling from the rush of adrenalin caused by the near fall, Seulgi changes tracks. “Do you know who Seungwan has been seeing? She didn't even tell me she had a thing going on-” she manages to get out before she freezes, realizing that she's talking to Wendy's ex-girlfriend. And that this might not be the best topic for light bedtime conversation.

She grimaces at her own tactlessness and buries her face in the sheets, groaning.

“Ugh. I’m so sorry! This must be so weird for you. You don't have to answer that,” she backtracks. She lays her cheek flat on the mattress and scowls at nothing in particular, feeling like a terrible, horrible person.

No wonder Irene doesn't want anything to have to do with her.

Her line of view is restricted to a lump at the end of the bed that must be Irene's feet. The lump shifts and squirms, raising peaks in the surface of the blanket, like the swells in the ocean caused by sharks swimming under the surface.

“Don’t apologize, Seulgi-ah.” Irene laughs and the bed shakes gently. “It’s not weird at all. In fact, I was the one who suggested that she call Eunji over tonight. They haven't had a chance to meet for months. We’ve been so busy, and to be honest, I was getting real tired of Seungwan moping around.”

It's a throwaway comment, but it only makes Seulgi feel worse. She’d been so lost in her own head, stewing in her worries, that she hadn't even noticed that something was bothering Wendy. And she’s Wendy's roommate, not Irene!

But her curiosity is sharp enough to cut through the fog of self-hatred. “Eunji, as in Jung Eunji of Apink?” she asks, propping herself up on an elbow to better look at Irene. She rubs her shins together to generate some heat, because her commitment to rebellion doesn't quite erase the fact that it's chilly outside the warmth of the duvet.

Irene's eyes follow the movement, her gaze razor-sharp, and markedly different to the affected boldness from earlier.

The goosebumps linger on her skin, but a heat spikes in the pit of Seulgi's stomach.

After a pause that’s long enough for Seulgi to wonder if Irene's zoned out enough to merit repeating the question, she responds with a half-hearted shrug. “Yep, that's the one. I was surprised, too. Eunji was always hitting on _me_. Go figure.”

Then, she laughs again, but there's a discordant bitterness to the sound. “But who'd want to deal with dating me, right?”

The self deprecating tone is so unlike Irene that Seulgi snaps out of whatever daze she'd been in the danger of falling into. She sits up and moves across the small distance between them till their shoulders are lined up.

She falters before she summons the courage to rest a hand on what she assumes to be a blanket covered thigh. “That's ridiculous, Joohyun, and you know it. Why would you even say something like that?”

“Did Seungwan ever tell you why she broke up with me?” Irene asks, finally looking at Seulgi. The expression on her face is serious and inscrutable.

The answer seems important, somehow.

Irene's gaze, at least, is piercing and direct. It's such a contrast from the unapproachable demeanour of the past couple months. It shakes something loose within Seulgi. Suddenly, she's uncomfortably conscious of the scant amount of space between their faces.

“No,” Seulgi says, cautiously. “She just told me that it was mutual. That it was for the best.” She shrugs helplessly. There's gaps to her knowledge of their romantic relationship, and it's not unintentional.

To Irene, it may look like she doesn't care enough to ask but that couldn't be further from the truth.

“So you’ve asked her about it?” Irene smiles. It’s weirdly similar to Wendy's cryptic smile. A sudden heat claws at Seulgi's face.

“U-uh. Yeah. Obviously. She's my best friend. Of course I asked.”

“Of course,” Irene echoes, still smiling. “After all, I'm sure you kept her updated during those late-night video calls. I used to be so jealous, you know? Once, I even thought Seungwan was cheating on me. With you.” Irene cackles at the memory, throaty and full-bodied. It’s such a ridiculous idea that Seulgi can only stare at her, nonplussed.

“But that was just me being stupid. Trying to find excuses for why we weren’t working out. I knew those calls were just you two keeping up with each other. Talking about all the things going on in your lives.” Irene tucks a stray piece of hair behind her left ear. Her smile widens, crooked and full of teeth. “Like—about that thing with Sunmi?” She’s the picture of nonchalance, but Seulgi sees it for what it is.

Irene's fishing.

Seulgi ignores the fact that her warming face must be the colour of her sweatshirt by now, to focus on her rising irritation. She wants to storm back to her room, take Wendy by her shoulders and shake the breath out of her. The absolute betrayal! She'd confided in her about that short-lived, whirlwind romance—it took place almost as soon as she'd begun touring with Sunmi, as these things usually go—in absolute confidence!

As if reading her mind, Irene lets out a snort, and a few hiccuping laughs. “The look on your face! Seungwan didn't tell me, you idiot. I follow the two of you on Instagram. Those captions weren't fooling anyone.”

Even though she's positively mortified, and a bit confused at the turn the conversation is taking, Seulgi finds herself grinning along. “Okay, maybe we were a bit obvious. It was barely a thing, anyway,” she concedes. As casual as she can be while doing an impression of a tomato.

“It sure didn't seem that way.” Irene leans her head against the headboard, regarding Seulgi with a calculating look that does not match the amusement painted over her features. “Was it like you always imagined it would be?”

Seulgi raises an eyebrow, perplexed. “What do you mean?” She mirrors Irene, resting against the cushioned headboard. Irene's eyes flick to somewhere over her right ear, and she tuts disapprovingly.

“You're messing up your hair. Well, more than it already is.” Irene's hand reaches out to touch the right side of Seulgi's head, where parts of her hair have bunched up against the headboard. “Let me braid it for you,” she says, decisively. Her tone makes it clear that there's no room for argument.

“Um, o-okay.” Seulgi shifts from her position. Irene's hand hovers over her shoulder as she turns around to face the other direction. Now all she can see is the projector screen rolled up above the dresser, and the wall of polaroids that she’s been trying to avoid since she walked in. “You really don't need to. I'll just put it in a top knot or something.”

“I’ve seen you in the mornings, Seulgi,” Irene says, not unkindly. Her hands move to the base of Seulgi's scalp and gather up her hair, frizzy with static. Seulgi tries not to jump out of her skin at the scrape of nails against the exposed nape of her neck. The effort is herculean.

Irene seems unbothered by how clearly bothered she is.

“What were you talking about? When you asked me that question just now.” Seulgi figures conversation—anything—would be better than suffering through Irene’s ministrations in silence. “How I imagined what to be?”

“Oh, you know.” Irene's warm breath fans over skin with every exhale, every word. “You've always been such a romantic. Always talking about destiny, grand plans made by the universe. Did you...did you find what you were looking for?”

Her hands deftly part Seulgi's hair into sections, fingers combing out some of the tangles gently. From anyone else, it would be comforting enough to lull Seulgi to sleep. But Seulgi's senses only grow impossibly keener.

It also doesn't help that Irene's probing into unfamiliar territory. Seulgi and Irene have known each other for a long, long time, but they've never really talked to each other about _feelings_. Seulgi always had Wendy for that, or Yeri, or Joy, or any of her other friends outside of the group.

It's a strange line of questioning after months of treading on thin ice. But that doesn't mean she's going to squander the opportunity to right some wrongs.

(Such as never talking to Irene about her _feelings_.)

“At first,” Seulgi answers after the long pause she takes to gather her thoughts. “Sunmi did kinda feel like fate to me. Because of how similar we are, you know? How we got paired almost randomly on that show. It felt like the universe was finally revealing its design to me.” She chuckles at that, thinking back to how naïve she had been. “New things always feel grand, don't you think? I always wanted to go on an adventure, and being with her felt like that for a while.”

Irene's hands still against Seulgi's scalp, fingers pressing against her skull in a way that feels heavenly. Seulgi bites back any inconvenient sounds.

Irene seems to be waiting for her to continue, so she does.

“I think I was wrong, though.” Tentatively, Seulgi leans back into the touch. Irene sparks back to life, and resumes twisting the messy ends of Seulgi's hair into a loose braid. “Fate doesn't always have to be dramatic, or a sudden change. I think...it can be quiet too. Like—like discovering something that's been there all along.”

Once the words are out in the open, the atmosphere feels oppressively somber. It's too much, too soon. A slow panic starts expanding inside her chest.

Irene is silent, slowly working through a task that should have taken her all of forty seconds.

So, in true Seulgi fashion, she decides to lighten the mood before Irene can respond to her spiel. “How come you're so curious about my life all of a sudden? I thought you were never gonna speak to me again. I was like, so devastated.”

She cranes her head back until it’s almost in Irene’s lap. She can just make out Irene's face. She’s smiling but her eyebrows are pulled together, conflictingly.

“Ah! Now you have a problem with silence?!” Irene flicks Seulgi on the forehead (to which she responds with a theatrical ‘ _Ow!_ ’). “I just needed some space to think, without you being...your annoying self. I’m still...processing. Stuff.” Irene tugs sharply at the end of the finished braid. “And did you really have to sneak into my room? Next time you touch my things, there will be consequences!”

“Is that any way to talk to your idol? I saw your collection.” Seulgi snickers. Irene makes to attack her face again, but Seulgi catches her wrists in her hands before she can do any damage. “What? I’m not making any of this up! I saw it with my own two eyes.”

“No one will believe you,” Irene says, smirking down at her. Her cheeks are flushed despite the bravado in her voice. Seulgi’s breath catches in her throat, and her grip loosens for a moment. Irene takes that moment to free herself from the hold. She pushes Seulgi’s head away, still blushing.

Seulgi climbs inside the covers. The remote part of her that had been crowing in celebration is not so remote right now. At Irene’s questioning look, she says, “What? You can’t make me put on pants.”

Irene tries to look annoyed but it falls flat, the amusement still clinging stubbornly to her features. She just shakes her head and reaches to turn off the bedside lamp. “Goodnight, Seulgi-ah.”

“Goodnight.” The bedsheet on Seulgi’s side is still cool, as is the pillow. “Hey, don’t you usually have the temperature set much higher?”

“Yes. But I also know that you run hotter than I do. And you get sweaty in your sleep.” Seulgi can barely make out Irene’s features in the dark, but she can hear the smile in her voice. “Try not to move around a lot, okay? I have to wake up early.”

Seulgi twists and turns till she finds a comfortable position, one leg bent at the knee and sticking out of the blanket, an arm curled under her head. “Do you have to go somewhere? I thought you were staying in.” Her eyes have adjusted to the lack of light, and she notes the thoughtful look on Irene’s face.

“Actually, I have a thing tomorrow…” Irene trails off. There’s sounds of shuffling, until Seulgi feels toes against her shin. They’re not cold but she jerks back from the touch, anyway. Irene huffs out a laugh, and presses her feet against Seulgi’s calves again, undeterred. Seulgi gapes at her shamelessness, unable to retaliate. “Do you wanna come along, tomorrow? I’m going over to SM.”

“What? Why? We’re on a break!” Seulgi tries to ignore the fact that Irene’s running her toes up and down Seulgi’s leg, possibly as some sort of punishment for defying her. “Why would you wanna wake up early on a weekend?”

“It’s a surprise. Are you in or not?”

It only takes a moment for Seulgi to decide. “Yeah, okay. I’m in.” After a pause for effect, she adds, “After all, can’t I give up sleeping in on a Saturday morning for my biggest fan?”

Their conversation is signed-off by a muffled yelp as Irene kicks her in response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some chapter restructuring!  
> this is however, a new chapter.
> 
> i actually combined the initial chapters into a giant chunk and posted it for easier readability, but now that i have no idea how long this thing is gonna be, i thought it would be better to keep the original chapter format.

**Author's Note:**

> Despair not, there is more to come!


End file.
